Untitled
by cottynmouth
Summary: WIP, DHr.  WIP, DHr.  'I'm aware, Malfoy. Just not keen on having you at my doorstep later, begging on your knees for more.'
1. here is the deepest secret nobody knows

**A/N:** First Dramione fic, so yeah, kids, be nice to it : I'll continue it eventually when I get more ideas.

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter aint mine.

* * *

At exactly three thirty in the morning, the Noctilien's door's opened, letting in two passengers. The soft, quick tapping of one inch heels entered first, leaving the second pair of heavy footsteps surrounded by whoosing fabric, follow. Both cloaked in black, they sat across from each other, neither knowing the safest passage to initiating conversation. The man tired quickly of avoiding interrogation and eye contact.

"Your hair's a bit conspicuous."

Oh yes, she remembered the drawl, the _damned_ royalty weaved in his accent, serving as a wall from the people of her breeding.

"I would say the same for you, if the comments regarding hair weren't so dull and immature."

She slightly tipped her nose upwards, ignoring her quickened heart rate of seeing Draco Malfoy. But then, no need to flatter him with her intrigued attention.

He observed her inspecting her nails with a faint sneer. How he missed her tone of authority, refreshing to his ears than curt orders delivered to him from his successors and the high pitched voices that resembled a glass of bubbly from his, to put it lightly, _bedmates_.

"Granger. I'll be polite and ask how you are and why you are in Lyon, and not back at home, warming the beds of Potter and Weasley."

Pity, he received hardly a reaction. No. Wait. Bingo. Eye contact.

"I'm afraid I won't return the falsified comments that files under the category of 'polite'. Tell me, Malfoy, do you enjoy being on your _Lord_''s beck and call, only to be notified by a surge of searing pain from your Mark? How can you think I'm inferior when you're no higher than an animal; a flock of sheep, branded by their peasant for an owner."

Lovely, his knuckles were turning white from grasping his wand beneath his cloak. It almost made her grin.

"I'm quite satisfied with your parents. They're where they belong: beneath the purebloods. Six feet under, in fact."

Draco knew the statement would begin a screeching rant, and he was waiting excitedly, like a sadistic child waiting for his parents to find out he was the one who pissed on the plant, all along.

He watched her count to ten, then exhale. _Damn._ Zabini had notified him of her little one-on-one sessions regarding anger management... Looks like the quack really did have a degree after all. Was it wrong to find this such a bloody turn on? Not the quack actually having a degree, but the feeling of making Herm--Granger resorting to use tips from the muggle class... The _power_ was overwhelming. Draco Malfoy felt giddy, and, naturally, he must want more. Minus the low hits and insults, of course, because then, he'd just be a sadomasochist.

She opened her eyes and did her standard facial expression if a snotty pureblooded arse was around. Tilt head down, there's a good Hermione, raise eyes/pupils to cause of disturbance, and think angry things. That's it. Look at the poor bloke shiver.

Bloody hell. Draco had forgotten how that glare, the glint of brown chestnut eyes, her hair wild around her face, framing it perfectly. Merlin, at this rate he could be considered of envying Potter and Weasley. And that simply isn't proper for a Malfoy, despite the small twitching sensation in his groin.

"Granger, it's rude to stare. I'm afraid I had set my expectations for your parents albeit too high. And I thought because you were... talented for your disgusted breeding, you might have been able to inherit some manners."

"I really don't think you're in the position to question my manners. Or have my memories been faulty and it was not your manners in fourth year that led you to inherit that certain nickname, what was it... ah, yes. Ferret. That little scene became quite a source of amusement for Ron and Harry when joviality was lacking. What would your Father say: his only son, a son of a pureblood Death Eater, came out to only be mere entertainment for mudbloods and mudblood lovers. He must be rolling in his grave."

Draco almost hit his breaking point, especially when Hermione continued her small rant--

"But then, you never met your Father's expectations, so I doubt he's surprised."

It had happened quickly, Draco's right hand clutching Hermione's throat, forcing her to stand up, his left hand bearing his wand. He wondered why she still remained calm.

"Why, have you lowered yourself to touching my kind?"

She sneered.

And Draco was forced to groan- his erection had become quite obvious, pressing against her stomach, but whether she noticed it or not----- Draco was now at the point of moaning in desperation, _Had she really just grinded her hips? _

With the dignity he had left, Draco growled, "Granger, I'm shocked. Are you seducing me?"

"Do you mind?", came the coy answer.

"Bloody hell, no." Draco lifted her against the subway wall, not concerned of the wellbeing of his wand when throwing it carelessly somewhere on a stray bench.

"Malfoy. It's not exactly right to be doing this. We're adversaries, not fuck buddies."

Why now, of all moments, did she choose to focus on the logical side of the situation?

He bit her ear, "Granger, you want this. You're bloody friends are too busy to satisfy you, and when they actually come to you, they're sodding pissed from a pub. So, don't tell me you're backing out now. You've teased me for years, and I want _you _now.. Remember when you hit me at Hogwarts? I fantasized nearly every night after that, the best orgasms I've had since I first came to school. And I'm pretty sure you've heard of my history in bed, so, Merlin's sake, help me with your bloody pants."

He returned his attentions to the zipper.

"I'm aware, Malfoy. Just not keen on having you at my doorstep later, begging on your knees for more."

"Just bloody unzip those pants, Granger."

---

Twenty minutes had passed, and Hermione was almost fully clothed, black lace bra clasped around her pale, bruised back, and her fingers were deftly zipping up her pants.

"So, that was good, yeah?" Her back was still facing him.

"Granger, I'd never have imagined to be having this conversation with you."

She sighed and cracked her neck. The Noctilien was coming to a stop and Hermione donned on her cloak.

"Look, I know this is cliche and all, but any time, if you ever consider changing, you can. Redemption's always an open option. You just have to choose it."

"I don't need any lectures on my morals, thanks."

"Just.. If you want, just come to this address." She handed him a small sheet of parchment.

"How do you know I won't give or show this to anyone else?"

"It's charmed."

"What'd happen?"

"It's safe to leave the cause and effects unknown. I'll see you around in France, thanks for the fuck."

She apparated, leaving Draco Malfoy behind the closing doors of the subway.

Draco Malfoy walked out of the subway, looked right, then left, and sighed, ruffling his hair. Granger's words left quite an impression on him- the realization that the Malfoy name was following orders from a Half-Blood. Sure, he thought of this before, but he just assumed that it would be for the best and after the whole "Let's Kill the Muggles and Mudblood!" charade, his family along with other Pure-Bloods would be restored to proper place. Above Half-Bloods. And the saddest part was, the mudbloods and muggles of the society would clearly know who would be leading the army that would cause their bloodshed. Oh yes, they would see that pale noseless Half-Blood, leading the troops of rich, snobby, pompous Pure-Bloods. And they would laugh. And throw tomatoes. And jeer.

Draco Malfoy wanted to crawl somewhere and have a good sob.

Despite that his childhood died when Lucius first Crucio'd him, he craved comfort.

He glanced at the sheet of paper that had MUDBLOOD written all over it and apparated away.

Never did he know the bushy haired witch under an invisibility cloak who held onto Malfoy's own clothing, apparating along with him.

---

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy landed at Death's doorstep.

Sadly, in this case, the term "Death's doorstep" was no joke.

Draco sighed once more (he sighed a lot these past few days) and looked at the sheet of parchment.

Think of it as some form of nostalgia, his longing or attatchment he had two years ago at Hogwarts, the chance Dumbledore had given him. The chance to rebuild an image, to go alongside others to kill Lord Bloody Voldemort, the chance to create an impression on Granger that would make her want to shag him senseless forever. And the chance to say "yes" to her begging of a moment of fucktastic sex. They'd figure out the more solid emotions later; sex first, talk after.

And the bloody prick missed _that_ chance. He'd bang his head on the door if Voldemort wasn't behind it. Come to think of it, the serpentine Hitler was _everywhere._ Though, Draco wouldn't venture through his imagination to conjure up the nasty thought of Voldemort watching every girl he had been with. Bloody Hell, sex was on his mind too much, way more than expected for a Death Eater. Stupid Voldemort and his voyeur ways.

Draco Malfoy opened the bit of parchment, expecting digits and a street name. Maybe a note of welcome, but no.

The yellowed (from age) scrap of paper read: "Boom".

Took a couple moments for Draco to decipher the four letters, but those moments were moments too late, as the shack in front of him blasted into pieces of infinite small shards of wood, of glass, of his mum's china, and of old Voldie.

'Boom' indeed, thought Draco as he fell to the damp, green Earth.

And there he saw Granger, walking towards him with Blaise in tow.

He smirked, but it was soon washed away with the soap and water of the image of Granger pointing a gun at his bloody face.

Almost made Malfoy think he was hallucinating, but the cock of the gun brought him back to reality.

He loved her bossiness and dominatrix character and all, but honestly this was too much.

"Get up Malfoy."

He'd roll his eyes if he could muster enough strength.

"Or what Granger? You'll shoot me? Merlin knows you're capable of doing anything now. Voldemort's dead and now you're probably gathering up all the little Death Eaters for interrogation. Though, I'm quite ashamed to find you go back to your muggle ways... A gun, honestly. Have the decency to threat my life with a wand, at least. "

He scoffed. _Voldemort's dead_... That statement was a wonderous sound, a small nursery rhyme to his ears.

His fantasy nursery childhood was eliminated by Zabini's input.

"Hermone, calm down, shooting him won't do any good. The war's over, the most logical thing to do is to take him to Potter."

So he's on first name basis now, eh? Draco would fume, but failed miserably in that conquest.

Hermione sighed and looked at Zabini, miraculously giving Draco the energy needed to get his eyes rolling.

"Fine. We'll get him there. And Malfoy, guns are much more efficient, the time to say a spell versus pulling the trigger. Do the math."

And with a 'Pop', they apparated.

Yet, not before Malfoy saw Hermione caress Zabini's cheek lightly, causing him to clench his bloodied fist.

---

The finale of the war had been astoundingly brief.

Concise, direct, straight to the point; Exactly the way Hermione had wanted it.

The night before the Order of the Phoenix planned to announce the defeat of Lord Voldemort, no longer the man named You-Know-Who, Hermione Granger's dreams were haunted by the steel gray eyes of Draco Malfoy.

He had looked so vulnerable at that moment, right after the explosion, during the time where the rest of Hermione's team went amongst the fire and rubble to destroy everything and everyone.  
She almost pitied him.

After she took Malfoy to Potter's quarters, and sent him then to the interrogation room (newly established at Azkaban), Potter took her aside to discuss the plans.

Hermione was to look after Malfoy, to take note of his actions and reactions to particular subjects, and to utterly destroy him. Well, Harry never said "utterly destroy him", but Hermione was sure that the content was weaved into his words. Mr. Potter, The Boy Who Lived, The Leader of the Golden Trio, no longer believed in rehabilitation, he just skipped through the whole "I'm good, I like bunnies and rainbows, the dark splotch on my arm was a stupid mistake that I made when I was fucking gullible and the bad guy brainwashed me!" charade. He was just _so_ tired of hearing their pitiful excuses. So he just fast forwarded through all that shit and cut straight to the execution. Sent them to the guillotine without a trial, like in the good old days when women wore those corsets for reasons other than seducing men with pin sized waists and to push up their breasts to their chins.

Hermione stopped her mind-rant to have a self concsious moment and to look down at her own breasts, which were perfectly plump and satisfactory, thank you.

Not like those ginormous tits that came all the way out to here. Honestly. If you wanted big boobs, don't spend money on implants, just buy jugs or melons.

She snorted.

And got out of bed to make some tea.

While adding little drops of lemon juice into her cup of earl grey (which was already filled with half a spoon of sugar), Hermione thought back on the information given to her.

Harry's plan was to annihilate Draco Malfoy, and he just happened to assign the task to her. Of course, Potter wasn't sending all the femme fatals out to destroy the Death Eaters, because that'd just seem like he's pimpin' them out away. Anyways, back to the plan: the destruction of Draco was not a physical one, it was simply more of a heart break, or some soul shoot down- the ones that kills your motivation and your natural drive to keep breathing and eating. And not those heart break scenarios featured in pictures where two people were romantically soaked in fluffiness.

Hermione stopped mid-snort. Honestly, she was getting unladylike by every passing second. But... the romantic view of a heart break could be of consideration. Make the bloke suffer, the kind of suffering that made you break down, break out, make your hands and heart hurt. It would be all one-sided, of course. Hermione would be the sadistic viewer in this case and Draco would be the victim.

It was going to be hard and it was going to take a blasted load of effort and acting skills.

Hermione really did enjoy challenges.

And she grinned like the sadistic cold hearted turkey she is.

Blaise's snoring from the other room brought her back from little Fantasy-ville to reality.

_Men_


	2. here is the root of the root

The celebration of the victory against evil was greatly enunciated by loud cheers, parades, massive feasts, and the like. 

Ron would've loved it.

Hermione walked silently over to the line of tombstones, picking out the one that held a beauty of a bouquet of flowers.  
Depressing, how Ron's grave was just one amongst the rest of the Weasley clan. To the left of his tombstone layed Ginny, to his right was Fred. The only Weasley left was Percy, but he didn't matter much: he was practically drowning himself in Firewhiskey.

Harry and the rest of the Order had already visited, leaving Hermione to give her farewell alone.

Though, it wasn't much of a farewell, more like a last reprimand. She just asked 'Why' despite all the cliche that was held in the context. She just wanted to know.  
Why did he sneak out of his bunk and slap away her ensnaring hands to go out with Harry to search for Ginny when she had been missing for two weeks. Why couldn't he just have accepted another death in his family when all she wanted was for him to remain alive. Selfish as it was, it broke her. The grown boy (he was always a boy to her) that found pleasure in drenching his scrambled eggs in syrup while calling it a masterpiece was gone.  
Her heart, once capable of loving an annoying and barbarian twat of a friend, died with Ronald Weasley.

They weren't romantically or sexually involved, of course. Hermione would've shuddered at the thought, but didn't out of respect for the dead. She had Zabini for the mind blowing stress sex. And Malfoy, a small part of her reminded her, pronouncing that special little bonding moment on the French subway.

And now she was left with Harry Potter, and the thought of it didn't sound so safe and warm as it had sounded years ago.

He was now cold and punctual, sparing brief hugs and dry kisses to the cheeks. He was a dull vegetable of a war. The pin up boy who encouraged the stereotypical views that the good side consisted of angels cladded in white. But they were tinted with gray, from all the betrayal, all the hurt, and all the battered and deceased emotions and passion they once held. War was a terrible thing really, a mass destruction in itself, it's own genocide.

"You're not crying."

Hermione knew the speaker, yet the impact of surprise hit her: he hadn't drawled. Still, she refused to turn around.

"Granger, as nice as your back side is, my intention was to talk face to face."

She sighed, slightly peeved that he had caught her at a vulnerable moment. Though, she refused to show it. Hermione was refusing a lot of things these days.

"Malfoy, we need to talk of your arrangements"  
She turned around and looked at him straight in the eye, unflinching.  
He raised an eyebrow, well, as much as he could, having stitches on his forehead and all.

"Yes, Granger, I've already heard from Potter of what you are to do with me. I am to be your bitch for a couple months, live with you, give you hell and play some sort of act that would make you genuinely believe in my newfound innocence. Of course, it was Scarface who was telling me all this in that blasted monotone of his, so honestly, I wasn't paying attention. I was just more focused on my surroundings and wellfare. So please, grace me with your explanations."

He made a gesture for her to go on with some sort of prepared monologue. As if she was waiting all day to explain his future in concise, organized form of speech. Hermione mentally scoffed, even though the idea of a prepared monologue was a good idea at the moment, seeing how he was intently glaring at her.

She took a detour.

"Well, Malfoy, you basically summed it all yourself. I am to watch over you and to make judgement on whether you are to walk out in the future without a serial code tattooed on your neck, a free man."

This was all a lie of course, he'd be stuffed into Azkaban either way. But he wouldn't mind the little lie, seeing how he lied plenty and excessively during all his years.

"And how long, exactly, is this imprisonment to last?" He looked bored, sounded bored, oozed of boredom. Hermione wished he had the effort to sound tortured, but it all couldn't be in her favor.

"About three months, at least. Depends on your behavior."

He contemplated for a couple minutes, weighing his freedom versus a couple months of limitations on the little golden scale he liked to call reasonable logic.

"Congratulations Granger. You've made yourself a deal"  
He offered his hand.

His pale large hand remained untouched.

"You'll be paying your amount of rent as well, of course"  
And after that bit of dramatic finale, Hermione strode off to collect applause and bouquets and to stand at Harry's side during the celebration of Voldemort's downfall.

------------------

Draco woke up on the silver couch, which was most likely forced into the dark red room with golden linings by Blaise Zabini. Draco frowned at the thought of all three of them sharing the flat, surely Granger couldn't handle two ex Slytherins. He remembered to announce his presence at the moment, seeing how no one had greeted him at the door and that he had to say several failed curses on the lock, ending up crawling through the "Alohomora'd" window.

He grumbled, stomach empty, out of the interrogation room in Azkaban the day before, the couch wasn't exactly the most pleasant place to wake up on. Draco was tempted to throw a shoe at the door that enclosed two voices that woke him up. Of course, his upbringing and etiquette stopped him, but he went to listen nonetheless.

"Hermione, last night..."

"Do you want these eggs"  
Hermione cutted him off abruptly, shoving a frying pan of eggs into his personal space, almost burning him.  
After taking a deep breath and taking a quick step back, Blaise continued his interrupted conversation.

"Quit avoiding---"

"Honestly, Zabini, make yourself useful and pour some coffee. I have to pick him up in a couple minutes"  
Blaise took the matter into a physical manner, grabbing Hermione's shoulders and pushing her against the wall. His eyes were begging, his touch gentle but firm.

Yet, Hermione remained stubborn to see the seriousness that Blaise forced on her.

"Blaise, you know I love our private activities, but right now isn't a great time." She smirked at their position against the wall, and Draco loved it... The smirk, not the position, because imagining _him and her_...

"Hermione. Shut up, you know I don't take our situation lightly. You riding me is amazing and all, but you know I need more, and I understand you can't give it to me... But you knew that I want you more than just some fuck buddy, and moaning some other guy's name in my bed is just..."

His Italian accent weaved into his voice, Draco Malfoy never saw old Beanie beg. Hell, Blaise was colder and more emotionless than he was in Hogwarts, but at the moment, well... psh. "PUSSY" was stamped across him forehead.

"Funny, Zabini. I just got the impression that you control what I say during a shag. Is that what you're trying to tell me? If you want to duct tape my mouth go ahead, I'm open to new things. You say you understand my feelings towards you, I suggest you respect them. Don't you dare, Blaise Zabini, tell me how I should feel towards a man or woman, and especially you. Now, if you mind, release me from your sweaty hands before I make you."

She sounded so fucking cold. Draco's smirk sort of faded, out of pity for Blaise. The pure wanker was in a vulnerable state and she crushed him. Just like that. Ruined the man's pride, she did. War is quite a magical thing. Draco decided that it was time to make himself known.

"Ahem."

Hermione was facing the sink, her back towards the kitchen door. Blaise was just... shocked? Deer-In-Front-of-Car-Lights moment? and Draco Malfoy had the gall to smirk at him.

"Malfoy, your eggs are on the table. When you're done, Blaise will show you to your room, and for my sake, take your trousers off my coffee table as well."

The wooden chair squeaked against the tile floor as Draco seated himself. Blaise, looking at Hermione's back in a cold and hardened way, roughly pulled the chair open to sit down, his eyes never leaving her.  
As Hermione made her way to the hallway, she leaned against the door, face in her icy hands, taking several deep breaths, forcing herself calm.


End file.
